i am pretty sure that it is just the winter or something. everyday i draw a picture and write one page and i still feel like a bowl of cereal and i don't like cereal so much.

i don't have much faith that things just happen right. but i also can quite be convinced that anyone can make a story out of their life and just write it and rewrite it and fall in love with it or open or close it or add to it.

it must be the winter or something.